Like That Star
by Steelsheen
Summary: Tybalt encounters some difficulties in comparing the aloof Rosaline to a star, and decides that poetry is for Montagues. Romeo and Juliet fic, oneshot, TybaltRosaline.


_Yes, I wrote a Tybalt/Rosaline fic. Yay for bizarre pairings._

Anyway, explanatory stuff: This is the spring before Tybalt, um... sniff  
And I know the play might make it seem like he and Rosaline are cousins. In this, I'm assuming Tybalt is Lord Capulet's nephew and Rosaline is Lady Capulet's niece. So they're not really related.  
No, they're not speaking in iambic pentameter. I'm not nearly that talented.  
And Tybalt is acting very Prince-of-Cats. :P

All types of reviews are appreciated, especially concrit. Did I get my thees and thous right? Let me know.

**Disclaimer: **_These characters are Shakespeare's. Even though he's technically in the public domain. I love the guy, though, and hopefully he's not rolling in his grave. No Tybalts were harmed during the writing of this fic.  
_

The grass scratched the back of Tybalt's neck as he stared at the sky, sprawled on the grass, decidedly not focused on what he was looking at. It was a cool night; spring had just barely made its presence known in Verona. The breeze ruffled Tybalt's hair and brushed across his face, but did nothing to cool him down. His muscles were tensed in almost the same way as they always did before he went in for the last stroke of a duel. He always got the last stroke, after all.

He could feel her beside him, and occasionally she would let a fingertip or a fold of her dress brush against him in some way, as if to remind him of what she had and he could not. It was a mystery even to Tybalt why he let himself be tormented in this way.

Because all torment must end, he decided, as he finally gave in and looked over at Rosaline's face. He did not trust himself to let his eyes wander any lower. Actually, he did trust himself. It was her that he didn't trust.

Her face was sharp and delicate, the skin about ten shades lighter than Tybalt's sun-tinted brown, her lips thin and pursed and perfect. She was a fresh-sharpened sword. He looked without speaking until she turned her head and raised an eyebrow at him.

Do not think, sir, that simply because thou hast prodded enough to convince me to lie down, I am like to do the same for thee in other settings. The tongue was as sharp as the face. Tybalt gave a slow half-smile.

Nay, of course, lady, he assured her. My intentions are of the very purest nature. Such a lie. He stretched an arm casually along the ground above his head, but her hands were too quick for him, and slapped the hand away before he could so much as touch one shining black hair. She ought to take up fencing, thought Tybalt briefly, before realizing what an odd idea it was. A brief image came to him: Rosaline, decked out in full formal dress, hoisting her skirts and brandishing a longsword with a gloved hand.

It was too much. He shook his head and shifted positions to distract himself.

And what _are _these intentions, which lead thee to seek me out at every ball and dinner and everywhere else I go?

Did she not know? No, she was playing with him again. He didn't answer, saying instead, Have I made it known how... becoming thy dress is this night?

He would compliment her into submission. She would have no power to resist. Soon, soon, he just had to keep trying. He would get through to her. No vow of celibacy was a match for Tybalt's will of steel.

she said shortly. Several times. Now, if thou wilt not pine overmuch for my company, I shall rejoin the feasters inside - She began to pick herself up off the ground. Tybalt caught hold of her hand. It was small and bony compared to his.

Wait! I - I shall pine. Well, I shall not _pine_, exactly. I am not accustomed to pining, Tybalt said quickly. He had to maintain some shred of dignity. But - stay a moment.

Her eyes flashed, a short burst of mischief, before becoming again placid and aloof. I shall, she told him and removed her hand from his as she lowered herself back down. Tybalt gave a brief, fierce grin, revealing sharp canine teeth. He had not even had to cajole her. The last stroke could not be far off.

But he needed a few more compliments, a few more well-placed thrusts before he won the day. He was, however, having trouble finding them.

He looked around for inspiration. The lady watched him, a knowing smile on her lips. For what dost thou search, good Capulet?

He puffed with pride, as always, at the mention of his family name. For something in this garden that can compare with thy beauty. I am finding it difficult, he said on impulse. Good, this was a good start.

Oh, really, said Rosaline, the very model of nonchalance.

Thou art like... Tybalt drummed his fingers, agitated, against his sword-hilt. Like that star, he decided at last, and drew his sword and pointed it heavenward. Stars were romantic, this he knew. All the poets compared their great loves to stars. It could not possibly fail.

Her response threw him off guard.

Why, that one.Yes, but which? There are millions.The one I am pointing to!There are millions of stars, said Rosaline, and I cannot see exactly which one thou pointest to. Even with the added length, she added, glancing oddly at his sword.

Tybalt shook the sword sharply. The bright one! That one, directly above us. Can you not see it?

Rosaline shook her perfect head.

Tybalt arched his back in catlike irritation. 'Tis bright, tis next to a few others - why does it matter to which I point, in any case? They all look exactly the same! He tried to suppress the familiar choler, but it was too late.

So in thy mind, Rosaline said slowly, I am just that - a star that looks like any other. I do not find that to be such a grand compliment.

Inwardly, Tybalt swore in terms that would have scarred a small child for life. No. Thou art a _bright _star. I do point to a bright one, though thou see'st it not.How bright?Brighter than... Tybalt considered saying the sun, but decided that would make no sense, considering that the night was dark. Brighter than this very sword, he told her, sheathing said object. Brighter than any other lady in Verona, he added for good measure.

Thou sayest truly? She leaned her elbows on the ground and placed her chin delicately in her palms. Tybalt's face grew warm with something other than choler for a change.

Yay, indeed, if they were all stars in the sky, and thee also, thou wouldst make them invisible, said Tybalt. By outshining them, he added after a pause, to clarify.

I knew what thou didst speak of, said Rosaline, leaning ever closer. Then she stopped still in her movement, and Tybalt stretched and mentally cursed again. But why should any man compare a woman to a star? There is nothing like a star in a woman, nor a woman in a star.

As Tybalt listened, disbelieving, she went on. Stars are tiny points of light. Women are - Tybalt interrupted, turning over onto his stomach.

said Rosaline, unaffected, but nothing like. Tis not the stuff of wit to compare them.

If there was anything Tybalt knew, it was when he had been insulted. Admittedly, he was usually more attuned to insults when a Montague spoke, but this stung his honor almost as badly. Well then, he huffed, I suppose I have no wit. May you have a pleasant night, my lady, he said, formalizing his speech and rolling onto his back again.

And I had thought we were calling each other thee' and said Rosaline, creeping up beside him so that their breaths mingled in the night air.

Tybalt folded his arms, having altogether abandoned the thought of the last stroke. He was not about to be won back so easily.

Come to think of it, comparing a lady to a star sounded like something that simpering Montague boy would do. He shuddered at the thought and wished fervently he had never said it.

Her face, he realized, was now directly above his own. Thou knowest, however, that it was a noble attempt at poetry, she said, voice somewhat hushed.

Tybalt unfolded his arms and drummed his fingers again, this time on the ground. He said, Poetry is the territory of weakling Montagues.

She cocked her head to the side. O proud Capulet, she sighed. I should so very much like to win thy favor back.

He peered into her eyes, upside down above him. And how, lady, dost thou intend to do this? he half-purred, reverting to the informal and giving up his sulk. She was too beautiful for him to maintain it any longer.

If thou canst keep this secret... She moved so that her face was right-side-up in Tybalt's vision, and then her lips covered his.

Tybalt kissed back voraciously. Finally, a release for all the energy he had kept pent up since the beginning of the night. He sat halfway up, triumphant in his victory, hands finding Rosaline's angular cheeks, smooth neck, then snaking down her back, arms encircling her waist -

The slap stung his wrists fiercely, and he withdrew his hands in surprise and pulled away. How - wha-You are too eager, she admonished. I, sir, have taken a vow of chastity!But - thou - Tybalt stopped to collect his outraged thoughts, and was only able to say, How on earth couldst thou hit so accurately, and so... _painfully_, behind thine own _back_?Skill comes with much practice, Capulet. Thou shouldst understand this, thou who challengest any man thou wishest in the street, she informed him, looking rather amused.

Yes, but was that hit not, by nature, impossible - Tybalt cut himself off; this was not the point he had intended to make. Then doth thy vow not encompass kisses? Thou hast broken it thyself!One can kiss another, said Rosaline, and remain chaste.So I cannot touch thy waist.Thy back?Indeed, no.Thy - Tybalt bit his tongue to keep from saying something obscene. Thy neck, then.

Rosaline twirled a curl around her forefinger. I suppose so.Thy face.Of course.So my hands can have free rein above thy shoulders, Tybalt exclaimed, but can venture nowhere below?I have taken a vow of chastity, she repeated. It is the way it must be. Still... Her voice dropped low. My lips can touch thine, if thou art willing.

Tybalt hesitated, tried to resist, and could not. Soon they were kissing again, laying in the cool garden grass, oblivious to all else, Tybalt envisioning how the winning stroke could not possibly be far off...

And then, abruptly, she broke away, smiling, and stood and smoothed her skirts with the utmost dignity. I must leave thee now, she told him.

Must thou? said Tybalt, breathless and sounding rather pathetic.

I must. Good night, Tybalt. His name on her lips was like hot new-forged steel. He gazed after her as she retreated into the feast-hall.

Tybalt had never so welcomed the cool breeze. So he had been wrong, he reasoned as he looked again to the sky, about being close to winning her completely. But there would always be another night. He would try again. Tybalt was persistent. Tybalt did not back down in the face of adversity. By God, he would win her in the name of his family and all he held dear!

And with these thoughts in mind, he strolled confidently back into the hall, feline smirk curling his lips. 


End file.
